


Laryngitis

by windienine



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Male Character, Windie can't write fic without making some massive life or death conflict: the sequel, adventure!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13688352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windienine/pseuds/windienine
Summary: People get sick in the Constant, sure. But they don't usually get SICK. Wilson and Wes, who have been traveling alone together for some time, face a major roadblock when Wilson winds up down for the count with some flu-like mystery disease and loses his voice.The real problem comes when Wilson reveals that it might be lethal, for all he knows. Wes is forced to take the reins in order to find a potential cure for his ill partner, but having the person who usually serves as his ears sidelined means he might face entirely new challenges in braving the toughest biome the Constant has to offer. Will he be able to pull out all the stops in a solo mission?





	Laryngitis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helioboros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helioboros/gifts).



     The pair trudged along through the undergrowth on an unfamiliar path, sticks and dead leaves crackling like firewood under their feet. The downpour didn’t show any signs of letting up, and unfortunately the stick of umbrella that they had been sharing up to now had been cracked in two the other day when it had to be used as a backup weapon in a scrap against a pack of Hounds. It was late dusk, it was hard to see through all of the rain and the falling darkness, they were both soaked to the skin, and the trail they were taking through the woods back to the grasslands was winding and along a difficult, uneven slope. Wes’ normally pristine striped outfit and fluffy hair were drenched in a mix of water and mud, and his partner barely fared better. Wilson had been concerned about getting back to camp before nightfall, as to avoid wasting any more lantern fuel than necessary, but Wes had something a bit different on his mind. He was concerned with the fact that Wilson’s physical health seemed to have been deteriorating since they had left camp a few days ago in order to go hunting for more resources that could be used for machine parts.

 

   Every time Wes had asked about his well-being, Wilson had simply evaded or countered the question and assured Wes that he would be fine and worry about the sickness later. To Wilson’s chagrin, his condition had suddenly worsened along their new shortcut. He had to catch his breath every few moments despite the both of them having been moving along at only a moderate pace—a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he had first arrived in the Constant.

 

   Wilson tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned around, walking backwards for a moment.

 

   “Wes,” Wilson managed to say through a heavy rasp, coughing twice. “Are… are we nearly there? I apologize for slowing the both of us down.”

 

   After a moment, Wes nodded, giving a little swing of his fist as a show of encouragement.

 

   “Almost,” he signed, bringing his thumb up to his shoulder. “We only have a little longer to go—will you be all right?”

 

   Wilson squinted for just a moment, before righting himself and puffing out his chest just a little. “Of course, I’ll be fine.” He reassured, but took a pause to cough again into his sleeve. “No need to worry.”

 

   Wes gave another nod, before turning around. He marched ahead with a spring in his step, eagerly making a show of the whole process in hopes of encouraging Wilson. Unfortunately, his eyes seemed glued to the ground, and his steps were slightly off-kilter and slow, like a drunk’s. For Wes, even a small, barely-noticeable change in his pace was reason to worry. He didn’t say anything further about it, though. Wilson probably knew what was best for him, right?

 

   The pair kept up a fairly even pace. While Wilson certainly didn’t want to bring it up, he could feel the humidity and the stuffy air of this mid-spring evening getting to him. His senses all felt muffled, and he was experiencing a dull-yet-present throbbing near his brow.

 

   It bothered him, but he was a lot more concerned about accidentally spreading whatever he had than actively worrying for himself. He’d record his own symptoms and devise a treatment based upon what he found. What really perturbed him about all this was the idea of getting sick.

 

   From everything that he had seen in others and experienced himself, pathogens in the Constant were simple and noncontagious. Of course, sickness wasn’t at all foreign- but it was primarily due to infection or poisoning of some kind or another. Dangerous mushrooms, animal bites, stagnant swamp water, any kind of weird slime—those were all to be avoided. He’d noted some time before in his journal that some of this world’s plants were prone to blight, which could spread. However, if this bout of (as far as he could tell) mundane illness progressed into a fully-fledged flu or something comparable, it would be the first time that an airborne human disease had made its way to the constant.

 

   Charlie could reshape this entire dimension if she so willed it. Was this place shifting and evolving under their very noses? Were they in even more danger than he had imagined? He had to keep himself sequestered from Wes and anyone else they came across. Quarantine. If this was an actively dangerous illness, he couldn’t let it spread around.

   He didn’t want to hurt anybody.

 

   No, that didn’t cover it properly—even if it wasn’t necessarily his fault, he didn’t want Wes getting hurt. He kept moving forward, but his footsteps grew slower. His body was heavy. Had it always been so difficult to move?

 

 _No one should have to get hurt_ , he thought, the pounding in his head only getting louder. He gripped at his forehead. The forest around him slanted to one side and then to the other, and his vision blurred. His legs felt like they were tied to cinderblocks- he tried to take another step forward, but his left leg buckled underneath him.

 

   Wilson had barely been conscious to the fact that Wes had been speaking to him this entire time, in an abundance of “are you all right?” and “say something!” repeated over and over with wider gestures. As he fell forwards, he collapsed right into the mime’s arms with a soft thump. Everything was moving in slow motion, and he just needed to… just needed to rest.

 

   “I’m so sorry,” he croaked out. Wes was visibly anxious, but he gave the man a reassuring pat on the back. It would be fine. Probably. “I didn’t want for you to have to deal with this mess. I can make it back on my own. Promise.” Wilson said, giving a weak little smile.

 

   Wes shook his head. This sorry fellow was tripping over himself and delirious, and he was still being just as stubborn as ever.

 

   He helped Wilson up onto his back, who took no initiative to stop him. He was a bit frail for this kind of feat, and Wilson was heavier than he looked, but camp was a short distance away. He worked himself up for one last push, and carried Wilson all the way there with only a few stumbles. The rain finally stopped, but a deep fog had engulfed the entire valley, combining with the dark to wash the entire Constant in a greenish pallor.

 

-

 

   Wes was not a doctor. This wasn’t a fact about himself that he often considered, but having to treat a friend for an unknown disease, unprompted, with a bunch of twigs and bark as his primary means of assistance really ground at his nerves and forced him to think quickly, trying to repeat things that he’d overheard in the past.

 

   Wilson was laid back against his fluffy bed roll in the tent. His breathing had become quick and shallow, and if he was conscious, he wasn’t showing any immediate signs of such. Wes took off his glove and placed a hand to his forehead.

 

   … He was burning up. What had people said to him in the past? Something about raising a person’s head up, fetching them water, using a cold compress? He could do that, he could make a cold compress. Wrap some ice up with cloth. Expose them to air, but leave them dressed.

 

   “Can you take off your vest and your shirt?” asked Wes. He waited a moment… but Wilson gave no response. That probably wasn’t a good sign. Wilson hadn’t even opened his eyes to see what Wes had to say, only shuddering in his strange, pained half-sleep. Every now and again, he coughed weakly or rasped something so quiet that it was unintelligible.

 

 “I’ll go get fresh water and ice and something for you to eat— please rest for now.” he said, partially in case Wilson opened his eyes, but mostly for himself. He had to stay calm and pull himself together. Wilson was officially out of commission.

 

   Wes removed his damp vest with care, hoping that it would ease some of the tightness around his chest and prevent him from catching a chill. He took off Wilson’s dress shirt as well, in hopes that his proximity to the fire would warm and dry him. He took a moment to look Wilson over- his body looked fine outside of being drenched in sweat and rainwater, and he had no new wounds as far as Wes could tell. It wasn’t easy, though—those jagged, vaguely crescent-shaped stitches across his chest, along with all the others he had accrued out here in the wilderness, dotted Wilson’s upper body like lines on a canvas.

 

    Finally, he rolled up his own bedroll, tucking it under Wilson’s neck and head to raise him up a little and decongest his lungs. Then, he was off to complete the mental checklist he just made.

 

-

 

   Water was key, so Wes was sure to place a newly-filled canteen right beside him. Wilson hadn’t woken up just yet, but hopefully he would. He might have just been completely exhausted, and that along with his sickness sent him right off to dreamland. Poor thing. Wes could relate—he, too, was exhausted, but it’d have to wait until later.  

 

   The minutes seemed to crawl by at a painfully slow rate as Wes worked. A cold compress… at the workbench, he stitched together a few layers of cloth around a hunk of ice. Nothing fancy, but it’d do. He placed it against Wilson’s forehead- that would hopefully help to bring down the awful temperature he had going.

 

   Food. Hot food was good for sick folks, right? Wes liked to think of himself as having gotten fairly good at cooking from watching the others in spite of his own lack of experience. Working as fast as humanly possible, he threw together some of what they’d foraged into a simple stew and left it to simmer in the crock pot. He just had to cross his fingers and wait.

 

-

 

   When Wes re-entered the tent with the meal, Wilson was awake. Having wrapped himself in the nearby pile of blankets, he looked up at Wes, delirium mixing with shame in his eyes.

 

   “Wes…” Wilson tried to say, but the rasp was barely audible and he immediately choked on his words. His throat was closed up- it was just like breathing through a straw. Wes placed the dish in Wilson’s lap, silently hushing him.

 

   “Don’t apologize.” he reassured, crouching down to Wilson’s level. “It’s going to be fine—I’ll take care of everything.”

 

   Wilson blinked. “Are… are you sure?” he mouthed. “You can’t just stay in the tent with me this entire time. That’s the issue—I mean, if I’m in here loafing about and needing care, and I’d generally tend towards the belief that we’re in danger if only one of us is taking on everything alone. Please, don’t overwork yourself.” He coughed over and over between each phrase, barely getting it out.

 

   Wes, who had been trying to interrupt multiple times to make his point, sighed silently. “I’ll be careful—but please,” he said, pausing. “Don’t go working while you’re sick. I care about you. Now, I saw you looking at your notebook the other night. Do you know anything that could help with your illness?”

 

   Wilson furrowed his brow. “I have the vaguest of ideas…” he admitted. “If this flu is anything like a normal one, I can’t just wait it out. We don’t have a sturdy enough base to warrant sitting around and resting on our laurels for what might be up to two weeks, taking the weather into consideration,” he continued, looking rather gloomy. He then turned to Wes, his voice barely pitched above a squeak. He hacked again, raspier this time—it wasn’t unlike a smoker’s cough.

 

   Wes laid out both hands parallel to one another, pantomiming: “Get to the point.” He paused. “Please don’t strain your voice.”

 

   “I… I won’t—”

 

   Cough. Rasp. Wheeze.

 

   “I won’t let you do what I have in mind. It’s far too dangerous for you, especially on your own.” Wilson eked out, taking his journal from his pack and holding it to his chest. Without a second thought, Wes snatched the book out of his hands. Dashing out of the tent, he knew that Wilson was probably yelling at him. Well, trying to, rather.

 

   He did feel a little guilty for nosing into Wilson’s privacy like this. But, he justified, it was for the greater good. Wilson couldn’t go around flouncing about his supposed tact and maturity and pulling the “it’s too dangerous” card when his life may very well be in danger! Wes was not ready to lose Wilson again, it would be far too soon.

 

   Besides, Wilson had even more nosy tendencies to him. Wes guessed that scientists all had their individual drives for knowledge, even if that blind curiosity led them into personal and physical trouble alike.

 

   He flipped open the little brown book. Latest page, latest page… ah! There we are!

 

   Sketches of plants and reeds covered the page margins, as well as a few miniature anatomical diagrams. The plant on the page had a thin stem and light flowers that were all in large clusters. Wes read the entry to himself:

 

   _Spring, Day XXVII,_

_I appear to have come down with a most unusual sickness. My hypothesis that illness in the Constant is only caused by poisoning and infection appears to have been mistaken, for I have no memory of doing anything that Wes has not also done in the last week that would incur these symptoms. I have eaten no strange food, nor have I drank any tarnished water. My wounds have been cleaned and treated. None are showing any signs of infection._

_However, I have been in conditions that would house pathogens well- dank caves, wet forests, and cold mountaintops. Unless this can be disproven by any means, I am tempted to write from the observation of my symptoms thus far that I have caught an influenza strain—an interdimensional influenza strain that I do not know the intricate workings of. I know not whether it is perhaps as deadly as consumption or sleeping sickness, or only as much so as a simple cold._

_In the case that this disease is serious, I cannot tell Wes. I do not want him in my vicinity, as not to spread this alien strain around. I do want to heal myself before it gets any worse, but it may be difficult. If this sickness works like its Earth variants, I should try to pick the Feverfew and Yarrow that I have sighted by the marshes and previously used to alleviate Wendy’s fever after her injuries in a fight with spiders became infected. I do not remember the exact medicine I concocted with Dr. Wickerbottom, but I do remember those two ingredients. Wickerbottom’s botany knowledge saved Wendy, for sure. Unfortunately, I have little innate knowledge of these natural cures. Whether a medicine made of both would help to alleviate my symptoms and ease my pain is unknown. But, there’s no use in not trying. If I am feeling up to it tomorrow, I will. I do have my worries, though, as the marsh is my least favorite thing in this entire [expletive] [expletive] place._

   Goodness, his handwriting was atrocious. Wes had seen schoolchildren with better penmanship! Closing the book hastily, he immediately took out his map from his own bag and started charting a course to the nearest swamp. Tentacles be damned, he was getting his partner that medicine. Wilson would do the same for him in a heartbeat! Even, perhaps, if he would not admit that.

 

-

 

   For the night, he headed back inside the tent. Wilson was already fast asleep, and it looked as if he had drank the contents of his canteen and been able to choke down at least half the bowl of stew. That was good, he’d be needing that strength to regain his health. He’d even managed to put on a pair of fresh nightclothes.

 

   Wes smiled to himself. What Wilson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Before he turned over on the floor of the tent, he placed Wilson’s notebook right on top of his chest. He was surprised when Wilson grabbed his arm out of the blue, turning to him in the dark with tired eyes.

 

   Wilson tried to speak up, but his jaw and throat were pained. Everything hurt. Swallowing, he sat up a bit, putting his hand on top on Wes’s before folding his own together. He signed, slowly and deliberately:

 

   “I know what you’re going to do—and I can’t really stop you. But,” he paused. “But, please, I’m begging you—stay safe. I do believe in you. Thank you for being as kind of a person as you are. I’m sorry.”

 

   Wes smiled, his shoulders lifting in a silent chuckle. “Honestly, I was going to tell you in the morning and go ahead and get the plants. Even if you told me not to, right to my face—you’re not powerful enough to stop me. Also, stop apologizing for everything—‘sorry’ isn’t scientific!”

 

   “… _You’re_ not scientific.” Wilson complained, before promptly being pulled into Wes’s arms in the softest, gentlest possible hug that he could manage. They both laid against the bedroll, and Wilson struggled for a moment—after all, this was the opposite of a quarantine. Yet, it was soothing. Wes had that weird, affectionate air to him, and his hair was so soft, and the whole feeling that he gave off could only be described as comfortable. Comfortable and bizarre. Wilson closed his eyes… and fell asleep, right then and there.


End file.
